Not to try to squeeze one last drop of judgment moisture from the desiccated washcloth of a true nontroversy, BUT, there is yet one thing left to say about the saga of YACHT (a former NW dance-pop band now located in LA). Thus far, we have had their failed attempt at culture jammin’ from a few days back; the music-minded internet mob’s scornful response; the band’s initial “shitty apology,” the music mob’s “not so fast, YACHT! You lied about something I am currently pretending to care deeply about” counter-response (accompanied by many credible outcries in the MANY comments); YACHT’s eventual “no, seriously, this time we’re actually sorry” apology, and now, the aftermath wrap-ups.
It is hard to deny the low pleasure of watching people fuck up in public. It is harder to deny that public shaming en masse is a damaging tendency that has been exacerbated into a reflex action by the irresistible power of internet time, where it is always right now, and there is always something more to add. So many of the post-mortem pieces turn on same question, whether stated or merely implied: How could they have had such a supposedly shocking lapse of taste and judgment?
But it’s easy to imagine how:
It’s easy to imagine how the band might have started out by making a video for their new song, as every band with a modicum of ambition is now basically required to do.
It’s easy to imagine how that video combined a night vision/sex tape visual reference that incorporated a horror/sci-fi twist, intercut with colorful performance footage.
It’s easy to imagine a director (maybe one of the band members?) making the pitch, figuring out how to do the effects, sorting out the pre-production, making decisions about art direction and wardrobe, doing the shooting, cutting it together, and getting the video ready to put in the world.
It’s easy to imagine everyone being excited about the finished product. It’s weird, sure, but weird isn’t an impediment if the band looks good and the song is really catchy. Coarse title and all, “I Wanna Fuck You Till You’re Dead” was on the pop end of YACHT’s dance-pop spectrum, and a totally plausible single, whatever singles even are in 2016.
It’s easy to imagine someone on “the team” asking the question of what they were going to do to try and make the thing stand out from the hundreds of other songs, videos, records that were going to be released—not that week, but that day. And that’s not counting if, I don’t know, Keith Richards dies, or Radiohead gets a fever, or Donald Trump tells Rihanna to go back to France or whatever, and this thing you’ve just spent a lot of time and money creating is essentially deleted from the cultural record, along with all the years you’d spent building up momentum in an indie music culture that barely acknowledged the existence of electronic pop when you started (especially in the pre-Postal Service PNW).
It’s easy to imagine someone coming up with the “stolen sex tape” prank element of this project as a way to get gatekeepers—music bloggers in particular—simply to watch the fucking thing to begin with. Again, a tall order on the best of days. And this has the added bonus of being naughty, and maybe even art if you cock your head at just the right angle.
It’s easy to imagine someone imagining people who liked the band getting on board with the burlesque of a familiar media trope—especially when a song kicked in about 30 seconds into the “sex tape,” that it was, in fact, a MUSIC VIDEO (in which no one gets naked, unless you count aliens shedding their fake human skin).
It’s easy to imagine someone thinking, people will like this song, and they will share the video, and we will still be able to be a band for some portion of a living. People will feel like they are in on the joke. (No one ever concern trolled The Blair Witch Project, or any of the hundreds of “found footage” movies that have come since. In terms of release strategies, this was just that minus a thorough commitment.)
It should have been waaaaay easier for someone along the way to have imagined people not just not falling for this tactic, but disapproving of it, objecting strongly to it, and more to the point, saying so everywhere online. When it comes to media marketing of art and personalities, the shame pile-on is the one scenario worse than being totally ignored, though it’s possible there are publicists (not YACHT’S) out there who would disagree—no one ever shames them.
So, yeah. They miscalculated. Overplayed the opening gambit. Didn’t trust the work to find its lane (pssssshhhhh). It’s a bummer, and the band will get the high hat for a few more days, but the offense is likely to be forgotten soon enough. Still, it’s interesting to see that the incident-rebuke-aftermath cycle now contains a “reflective epilogue” segment, where people have a long hard think about what we’ve all been through since the whole YACHT thing happened. (Does anyone even remember Mondays anymore?)
The best thing written or said about YACHTgate (YACHT-zee? YACHT-erloo? YALCHT-amont?) is this piece on the Talkhouse, written by Hutch Harris from the Thermals. I had noticed Harris among the many pissed-off people calling YACHT out on social media yesterday, and was a little surprised that he was so outraged.
I put my phone down. I didn’t feel any better after chiming in with the deafening clatter of digital indignation. No matter how many people agreed with the sentiments I was voicing, I only felt worse. That’s when I realized that my anger was not about YACHT, it was about me. My criticisms of their stunt may have been justified, but what were my real reasons for lashing out? Even when I was just roasting them in a semi-good-natured manner, what was the root of it? The answer was simple. I was already in a bad mood when I woke up. I had slept very little and was decompressing after a month on tour. YACHT was an easy target for my foul mood and mouth. I may not have been wrong, but I didn’t feel right.
The Thermals are playing tomorrow night, Thursday, May 12 at Neumos. Their new album, We Disappear, is fantastic.
